by Harlow Cole
I could already hear the skepticism in his voice.
He’d been handling this transaction with kid gloves.
I laid my head back against the seat, staring out the window as a man in a gray suit stepped off the curb to cross against the light. He froggered his way between bright yellow cabs in the lanes beside us, obviously late for something so important, it warranted the risk.
“Pull the trigger,” I said in a raspy whisper.
Gino tapped the brakes as the gray suit passed right in front of the hood of our SUV. “What the hell are you doin’, asshole?” he muttered, shaking his head.
The gray suit leapt up onto the curb. I watched as he disappeared into the throng of people waiting on the opposite corner.
“You sure, man? It needs a lot of work. I know you’ve got some sentimental thing going with it, but it looks like a money pit.”
“I can’t lose it,” I finally answered. “Do what you have to do.”
He sighed. “All right. Might cost you a little more than we thought.”
My hand trailed up and down the soft skin of Ashley’s shoulder. Her hand slid under the spot where her cheek rested against my chest, right up against my heart. I prayed she couldn’t feel how hard it beat inside my chest.
“Doesn’t matter. Just close it. Tonight, if possible. Time is of the essence.” I stressed my final words.
“Give me twenty. I’ll call you back as soon as it’s finalized.”
After I pocketed my phone, I pulled Ashley tighter against me, wrapping both arms around her so she was trapped between them.
“Everything okay?” she asked.
“It will be,” I whispered back, dropping my lips down to kiss the top of her head. “It will be.”
* * *
Ashley
I wanted chocolate. And coffee. And furry slippers.
Not necessarily in that order.
The magazine people had brought lunch in from some swanky deli. I never ate. At the time, the thought of tuna on rye had made nasty things happen in the back of my throat.
Brayden’s phone rang again as soon as we got in the door. He took the call to his office, leaving me to pillage the refrigerator by my lonesome. Everything inside it sat perfectly sorted, like the shelves inside a grocery store. No way he’d done it himself.
“Whoever stocked this for him has some serious OCD. And shitty taste in junk food.”
I moved a few things around, destroying the feng shui and making it look like it belonged to the man who lived here.
I’d moved on to digging through the pantry cabinets when the doorbell rang. I padded barefoot across the room to answer it.
“Ms. Foster, good afternoon.” Marcus, the white-gloved doorman who’d greeted us yesterday, stood there with arms loaded down. “I’m so sorry to bother you, but Mr. Ross asked me to bring these things up as soon as they arrived. May I?” He gestured toward the room behind me.
“Of course,” I said, a bit flustered as I moved to the side to let him in.
He walked to the expansive dining table, too shiny to have ever been used, and unloaded the items onto the glossy black top.
“I usually hold all the mail until Ms. Jessica comes by, but I know she’s been out of town a couple of weeks, and I thought I would just bring that up as well. The packages are all addressed to you though.” He warmly smiled at me. “A courier just brought them over from Bergdorf.”
“Uh, okay. That’s just . . . weird,” I said, stammering.
There were three huge boxes and two shopping bags with crisp white tissue spilling out the top. He grinned at me. Or rather, at my lack of sophistication.
I’d felt that way all day. Like these New Yorkers had all been schooled in a version of the world three releases ahead of mine. Everything I said to them sounded a little bit backward falling out of my mouth.
“There should be a card for you from Mr. Ross’s personal shopper. It’ll be in the largest one.” He tipped his head toward me and moved back to the door. “Hope you enjoy your evening, Ms. Foster.”
He soundlessly slipped out as I continued to stare at the hoard he’d left behind.
I didn’t look inside right away. It didn’t take rocket science to figure out what the fancy packages held. I went through the stacks of mail instead, carefully sorting out correspondence from junk mail. I put the magazines in one pile, the bills in another. The big manila envelopes got their own stack with all the postage carefully turned the same direction. When I finished, Brayden’s mail sat more orderly than the contents of his fridge.
With nothing else to distract me, I finally opened the lid on the largest box, just enough to extract the thick envelope peeking out from the top.
Gretchen. His personal shopper’s name was Gretchen VanCleeve. The thick gold stationery held the scent of heavy perfume.
I pretended that’s what made my eyes water.
I’d packed my favorite dress. I’d pulled it from my suitcase and hung it in the closet not long after we’d arrived. A plain black sheath that didn’t call too much attention. Joey had loaned me a pair of shoes with fancy red bottoms. She’d talked about them for a month after she scored them on eBay last fall.
I smoothed my hand over the top of the box. Gretchen’s choices would be beautiful. They would fit me as if hand-sculpted for my every curve. They would make me look sexy and sophisticated.
And would also, no doubt, leave me feeling even more monumentally backward.
I wanted my plain old dress. I wanted to blend in with all the other people. The ones traipsing up and down the pavement my feet had yet to touch.
The dress in that box would turn me into the strange girl on Brayden’s arm. The one people would gawk at as they mouthed the words, Who the hell is she? The same way all those people at the photo shoot had all day long.
I loved New York and hated it, all at the same time. I’d never felt so alive, yet so utterly out of place.
I abandoned the fancy packages and padded down the hall, ready to ask Brayden where the hell one went in this town to grocery shop for some real food. The door sat slightly ajar. His back faced me as he stared out the window, down toward the street so far below.
“Thanks for taking care of this so quickly.” He listened on the other end and then chuckled. “Yeah. You see Chavez tank one the other night?” He laughed again. “The little schmuck talks faster than he throws. At least, the way things are going, I won’t be missing any playoff time.”
He threaded his free hand into the back of his hair. The jagged red scar on his elbow caught my eye.
One thing marred utter perfection.
“Me, too. Should start soon. Hope like hell it comes back fast. But I can’t tell you how much I appreciate all your help. Feels a lot better, knowing I have contingencies in place if things don’t work out and everything goes to hell.”
He listened again, nodding his head to whatever was being said on the other end.
“I sure as hell understand now why GMs all breathe easier with a stacked bull pen. I’d never really considered the need for backup before this shit went down.”
I eased back from the door, feeling foolish for thinking of Twinkies and Doritos while he sat, worrying about his future.
I walked out to the patio. I sprawled out, flat on my back in a lounge chair, so I could stare up at the pink sky fading overtop the sea of tall buildings. I couldn’t help but picture what the same sun looked like sliding into a long expanse of familiar blue water.
23
Vip
Ashley
They were trying to eat him alive.
Faceless cyborgs with one bright eye.
They climbed over one another, pushing and shoving. They called out with the desperation of drowning men clamoring for the last remaining life ring.
I stood just inside the door where Gino had told me to wait, watching the scene unfold like a bad sci-fi movie.
The man playing the role of the hero couldn’t possibly be human. He never squinted agai
nst the blinding lights. Totally at ease, he kept one hand in the pocket of his professionally beat-up leather jacket. He used the other to point toward someone in the crowd. Turning his head, he smiled and rotated his shoulders a little, throwing a bone to the guys on his right.
A loud catcall rose above the others. The comment garnered instant reward. The megawatt smile filled me with the oddest déjà vu. A memory of Jack Ross standing near the kitchen sink.
The cyborgs paused, momentarily stunned by the brilliance reflecting back at them. Then, they all lit up again, amped up into an even greater frenzy.
I pressed my hand against the queasiness inside my belly. I’d never eaten anything.
“Ashley?”
I didn’t recognize the woman approaching, calling out my name. She was statuesque. Rich golden-brown hair cascaded around her shoulders. They sat atop a model-perfect figure, highlighted by a deep purple dress. She smiled in my direction before she one-arm-hugged Gino and whispered something in his ear. He turned and nodded at me before walking away, farther into the throbbing darkness of the club.
“Hi, I’m Mia.” She held out her hand in greeting. “I’m Brayden’s publicist.”
I shook her hand and tried to smile back at her. A hand clasped hold of my waist before I could speak.
“Mi-Mi, thanks for doing this.” The warmth of Brayden’s palm burned through the emerald-green fabric clinging to my skin.
Gretchen VanCleeve had chosen a dress that matched my eyes.
“You okay?” he asked, squeezing me tighter, as his lips brushed against my ear.
“Yeah, I’m good. That was a little intense, huh?” I asked, peeking back over his shoulder.
Heavy velvet curtains swept in place by security guards closed us off from most of the noise and commotion out front.
His shoulders shrugged dismissively. “Another thing you get used to.”
He stood right in front of me, his skin against mine, yet I suddenly felt far away from him. About as far as the expanse between his sense of normal and my own. The distance threw me off-kilter.
Not a good thing in four-inch heels.
“I’ve got a few people I have to talk to. And getting through this crowd might be a little hectic.” His hands ran up and down my arms, like he somehow knew this place gave me the chills. His face grew more serious. “Mia is going to take you upstairs. I’ll meet you there, okay? Just follow her lead.”
I nodded, even more out of sorts. He hadn’t warned me we wouldn’t be sticking together.
“She doesn’t leave your side,” he said forcefully, releasing me as he turned to point a commanding finger at his friend.
Mia cocked a hand on her hip. “I told you this afternoon, I’ve got this.” She pointed a manicured finger right back at him. “You just watch your mouth. Don’t say anything about Chavez busting ass. This place is crawling with gossip whores. Someone catches you talking trash, it’ll be on the front page of the Daily News tomorrow. Best revenge on that loudmouthed brat will be you taking back his starting gig. Six months from now, you’ll be serving up hundred-mile-per-hour cheddar, and he’ll be bussing tables at a minor league park in Scranton.”
Brayden nodded and gave a mock salute just as a man in a tan sport coat and dark jeans came through the parted curtain. The guy had the flash of a man who wanted everyone to notice his full money clip.
Mia leaned toward Brayden, speaking in a forced whisper, “Eddie Loweman. You’ve met once before. Charity golf thing Mark hosted last spring. Wife is Fiona. Two little kids.”
Brayden winked at us both. Then, he quirked a brow at Mia and added, “I ever tell you, you’re the best in the business?”
“You’re going to this Christmas when you give me a bonus check inside a gorgeous Chanel bag.” She chuckled and then murmured under her breath, “Incoming.”
A boisterous palm clapped Brayden on the back before he could respond.
“Well, they said you’d be here, but I didn’t quite believe them.”
“Eddie,” Brayden replied, dialing up the megawatt smile again as he shook the guy’s hand and clasped his upper arm in greeting. “How are Fiona and the kids?”
As flashy Eddie started talking, Brayden made quick, pointed eye contact with Mia. She nodded her head toward him and then smiled brightly at me.
“You look like you could use a drink,” she said warmly. “Let me get you through the worst of this crowd, and we’ll score ourselves a cocktail. You’ve had quite the day.”
I fell in line a few steps behind her, but I couldn’t stop myself from glancing back over my shoulder as three more men joined in on laughing and patting Brayden on the shoulder.
“Those are the guys who own this place. The sooner they get their fifteen minutes, the sooner he’s a free man,” she said as her eyes followed my gaze.
“Everyone wants a piece of him,” I muttered.
“Yeah. Sort of comes with the territory. He’s a bright, shiny thing. They all think, if they get close enough, some of it might rub off on them.”
I temporarily misplaced my filter. “That’s kind of ridiculous.”
She stopped walking and giggled, clearly surprised by my assessment. Her head pensively cocked to the side. Her shoulders relaxed, easing her demeanor from all-business to fast friend. “Yeah, you’re right. I mean, all he does is throw a white ball for a living.”
We smiled at one another, finding common ground.
“Come on.” She waved her hand to coax me forward again. “I promise, this place sucks a whole lot less upstairs.”
We wove our way through layers of people and loud, pounding bass. We climbed glass stairs that led behind velvet ropes to an area with plush chairs and low couches, all stuffed with bodies.
The whole room pulsed.
Someone brought us frothy pink drinks in tall martini glasses.
We positioned ourselves in a quiet corner near the railing. From up above, we could stalk Brayden as he moved through the crowd down below us. Gino stayed two steps behind him, maintaining a barrier that kept people from closing in on his back. He stopped and shook too many hands, listened to people whisper in his ear, and smiled for camera phones so many times I didn’t know how he hadn’t gone blind.
“He told me this wouldn’t be your scene.”
I sipped my drink as I turned to look at her. “Yeah. I’m a little out of my element. In this whole town though, not just this place. I don’t think I was cut from the same cloth as any of these people.”
“Eh. They’re no different than you or me. This town is all about fake it till you make it. Besides, you certainly didn’t look out of your element today.”
“You were there?”
She smiled. “Yeah. On the fringes. I never got a chance to introduce myself. The kid who took Brayden’s spot this season has a big ego and a loud mouth. The media hounds want to pit the two of them against one another. I spent half the day on my phone, saying, ‘No comment.’”
My forehead furrowed in response.
“But I saw it all go down. Those shots you got with his fingers trying to cover up part of the scar? That shit was incredible. He never would’ve given that up for anyone else. He’s usually aloof at those things. You have no idea how many times I’ve told him he has to loosen up, or people will think he’s an egomaniacal prick.” She chuckled and swirled her drink. “I hope like hell we can talk him into letting them use that shot. He looked . . . I don’t know. Vulnerable. And that’s not a word people in this town are used to associating with him.”
“Brayden has a lot of layers,” I said, picking at the crusted sugar on the rim of my glass.
“Yeah? I’m not sure he shows them to anyone else. But he sure as hell let you photograph them all today.” She curiously stared at me. “Everyone in that room was buzzing about it. People were dying to know who you are. Truth be told, I’m sort of dying to know who you are. Like I said, Brayden is always pretty closed off about his personal life. All I know is, he cornered me and
told me I had to guard you within an inch of my life tonight.”
My brows dismissively scrunched together as I looked her in the eye. “I’m nobody. I promise. And I think everyone was buzzing today about why they had an amateur behind the camera.”
Her eyes widened. “Are you bullshitting me right now? Girl, they were all whispering behind your back because the sexual tension in the room made everyone sweat. The way he kept looking at you through that lens? Damn. I’ve never seen a guy make love to a woman from forty feet across the room.” She fanned a hand in front of her face. “I spent the other half of my day making sure everyone understood the concept of a closed set. If video of that shoot leaked, my phone wouldn’t stop ringing for days.”
As she spoke, I turned to watch Brayden. He’d almost made it to the bottom of the staircase. A group of women were clustered around him, clinging and petting. More people trying to borrow his shine. Something he said made them all throw their heads back with robotic laughter. One of them not so stealthily slipped a piece of paper in his back pocket.
“I wish I could lie and say you get used to the jockstrap bunnies, but you don’t. You pretty much always want to bash their faces in,” she said in disgust. “See the dark-headed guy over there in the blue shirt? The one that skank in the red dress is trying to climb up on?”
I turned to look in the direction she was pointing. Two men stood near the end of the bar, nursing cocktails in tallboys. They were trying to talk to one another and ignore the swell of people crushing toward them. It wasn’t tough to peg them. They had that same thing. That polish that made them stand out from the regular folk.
“He doesn’t look like he even knows she’s there.”
“Yeah. He’s a good boy,” she said, smirking. “That one belongs to me. Tucker Brant. Brayden’s catcher. Brayden actually introduced us. You remind me a little of him. He came here, fresh out of water. But he’s learning. That’s how this town works. It eats you up, spits you back out, and makes you realize you’re tougher than you know in the process.”
I sighed. “Life’s already chewed me up a handful of times. I’m not sure I’d ever survive that again.”
